


Idiotball

by MezzaMorta



Series: Quartet [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Apologies, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Class consciousness, Companionable Snark, Consensual Kink, Domestic Discipline, Domestic Fluff, Double Ball Gag, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Gags, Greg rewards Sherlock, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, Harness play, Idiots in Love, John is self-aware, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Middle John, Mild Corporal Punishment, Multi, Mutual Masturbation, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, Mycroft is a Softie, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Protective Sherlock, Riding Crop, Romance, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock gets a bit toppy (but not much), Spitroasting, Top Greg Lestrade, Voyeurism, verbal kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-05-01 03:40:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14511747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MezzaMorta/pseuds/MezzaMorta
Summary: Sherlock is horrified by a rare and awful incident at 221B: John and Mycroft having a blow-up row. About sport. And class. And crisps. The Police are called. Well, one of them.Mostly dialogue.





	1. In which insults and crisps are thrown.

**Author's Note:**

> More wordy banter and kink. Same universe as 'Washing Up' and 'Best Days of Your Life'. Just four blokes who love each other very much and drive each other mental.

It started with a phone call, as many things did. 

"Greg, you need to come home," said Sherlock, in his Serious Voice. The voice he only ever used when something dreadful was about to ensue. 

"What? What's wrong? What's happened?" Greg's voice registered brief alarm, before settling into emergency D.I. problem-solving mode.

"This." From the privacy of his bedroom, Sherlock held the phone round the door jamb towards the living room of 221B. From his end of the line, Greg caught something untoward that filled him with cold dismay.

"What is that noise, Sherlock?" he asked, knowing full well, his heart heavy with reluctance to acknowledge it. 

Sherlock sighed through his nose impatiently. "That noise, Gregory, is the hellish noise, the horrendous sound, of John bloody Watson and my blasted brother having a blazing row."

"They never are?!" said Greg, incredulously, trying to stave off reality for a few moments longer.

"You can't hear that, Lestrade? Honestly, does nobody listen properly?! And they let you in the Police!"

"I hear it, Sherlock, I just can't believe it. John and Mycroft?!" 

"Yes, the massive pair of wankers."

In truth, the occurrence was not entirely unprecedented, but it wasn't frequent either, and all the more disruptive for being rare.

Out of the four of them, John and Mycroft were the two least likely to conflict, each having a rather sweet, almost shy attachment to the other, based on mutual respect and admiration. Each man found certain of the other's qualities appealingly unlike his own, and thus fascinating and attractive. They complemented each other well. John admired Mycroft's cultured refinement and ability to turn a phrase; his style, composure, dry humour, and, of course, the extraordinary Holmes mind. Mycroft was dippy for John's courage, his frankness, tolerance, optimism and easy charm. It also helped that they fancied the arse off each other. John had always had a thing for a good-looking posh boy (or two). Mycroft, for a handsome working class hero (or two).

Their rather more moderate personalities led them to hold the middle ground in the face of Greg's occasionally alpha-male grumpiness and Sherlock's grandstanding, attention-seeking petulance. Neither of them minded in the least. Their calm solicitude and ability to remain unruffled in the face of more extreme characters served the dynamic of their little quartet bonkathon extremely well. 

Sherlock's short temper was notorious in the W1 postcode and the Greater London area; his grudge-holding capacity was the stuff of legend. Only Ancient Greek epic poets could do justice in dactylic hexameter to a Sherlockian sulk. Greg himself was a classic flarer-upper; prone to outbursts of hot-air and shouting when pushed - mostly induced by petty domestic incidents and Sherlock-based antagonism - but they died down as quickly as they came. Greg could not be riled by Big Events or Serious Issues. Only petty crimes and misdemeanours. They were just so pointless, they got on his wick. 

John was a natural mediator, Mycroft a born negotiator - except when it came to Sherlock, when they both favoured the no-nonsense disciplinary approach, coupled with logic, coaxing, sexual bribery and irresistible kindness, by common agreement that if you gave the boy an inch he'd take a mile, and then before you knew it he'd have taken over ever major landmass on the planet, and all the oceans too. With Greg, they could soothe and wheedle, give him a bit of space, and make him laugh at himself enough to forget why he was annoyed in the first place. 

When John and Mycroft did clash, however - when John Watson got the bit between his teeth and Mycroft Holmes made opposition to it his personal mission - they could make the lights turn off in the street.

John's temper, though always on a very long fuse, when truly pushed to the limit was something to witness; a conflagrationary response, uncharacteristically dramatic and untamed.

Mycroft's rage came coated in pure ice, full of clever provocation and well-placed expressions calculated for maximum reaction, but serene and cold enough to give no satisfaction to a raging adversary. He chiefly employed words as sharp and accurate as arrows, backed by an arsenal of intentionally unbearable superiority. John loathed these dirty tactics, and Mycroft knew it.

Occasionally, when he could see through his ire, John would flip the script and be devastatingly composed, causing Mycroft’s usually submerged Holmesian temper to ignite into sparks.

It was this stage to which they had evidently now come.

"What are they fighting about?" asked Greg, wearily, sipping the last of his godawful machine coffee. 

"They're not fighting, Gregory, they're rowing. About sport - again! As if there's anything more worthless to have a row about!"

"Oh, Christ, please, I don't want to know." Greg put a hand over his eyes. Sherlock snorted contemptuously.

"Neither do I, but I've had to listen to it through the walls for the last hour."

"What's the gist of it, then?"

"Ugh, who cares? The usual boring gist. John wants to watch something involving a ball and just puts it on without a thought for our sufferings! Mycroft wants to cuddle up with some tedious old monochromatic rubbish, then feels all put out, sneers and gives him a Look.”

“Oh, Lord…”

“John goes all bristly and turns the sound up, starts shouting at the idiots with the ball, or the idiots without the ball, or just watches the idiot ball pointlessly flying through the air for no discernible reason. Mycroft scoffs and calls him a Neanderthal with all the sophistication of a fourth-rate estate agent. John throws crisps, Mycroft crunches them into the carpet. John demands they're swept up, and Mycroft says if he insists on acting like a savage why not just spray lager over everything, and buy the Daily Mail, and call the sofa the ‘settee’? Now Mycroft is all salty and vinegary - covered in crisps - and they're off and screaming."

"Oh, for God's sake, not this again."

"Honestly, this is why Rosie must never be allowed to go to playdates, none of this would be happening if she were here. We’d be making ducks out of playdough.”

“You like playdough, don’t you?”

“Playdough is splendid, as are ducks. But this is frightful and I want it stopped. Come home. I demand it!"

"Right this second?"

"Now. Instantly. Move your arse, Greg."

"I'm at work, love."

"Pah, work! You can have crap coffee and read the paper at home once you've sorted this out. And don’t think we won’t be talking about you picking up extra shifts on a Saturday, Gregory."

"I had to, love. No cover. Make it up to you.”

“Make it up to me now. Save me, it’s your job!”

“Can't you sort this one out? Wait, what am I talking about...?" he said, under his breath.

"No, I can't, because John's a stubborn dickhead who won't back down and listen to reason, and Mycroft's a supercilious dickhead who won't apologise or stop provoking for his own sadistic amusement - and I'm a delicate flower who needs to sit down in a darkened room and get some heavy deductions going. I can't hear myself think. Both of them need their heads knocking together!" 

“Aw, sweetheart. It’ll all be over by the time I get there.”

“Don’t bet on it. Mycroft’s just liberated the remote control to the outside world. Think Angelo will probably sweep it off the pavement for us again, though. Yep, there he is. Thank you, Angelo!” he called, cheerfully.

“Myc doesn’t know we’ve got a drawer of spares, does he? Silly boy. Which game is it, darl?”

“What’s the shouty one? With the round ball, not the stupid ball that isn’t a ball at all.”

“Footie, love. Oh, yeah, Spurs-Liverpool. Probably another 65 minutes left in it…”

“Honestly, Greg, they're worse than children! They’re behaving like me!”

“Imagine that,” breathed Greg, shuddering.

“Smack the backs of their legs and send them to bed without supper, please, before one of them starts opening kitchen cupboards for more ammunition.”

“Can’t believe I’m going out with a Spurs supporter... He’ll be in a rubbish mood, they’re losing three-one. Ha!”

“None of the words you’re saying mean anything, Greg. Come home and make these horrible men stop giving me a headache.”

“Got a headache, sweetheart?”

“Yes. Feel wobbly. Don't like it.”

“What's that one called, then?”

“Upset. It's upset, Gregory. I'm all upset. And all over a game of idiotball. Appalling!”

“Aw. Papa come home and sort it out, yeah?”

“Yes, please. Was that so hard? Honestly, it’s like pulling teeth with you sometimes.”

“It’ll all have blown over by the time I arrive, I’m telling you.”

It hadn’t.

By the time he arrived, Greg could hear the row from the bottom of the stairs.

John was howling with indignation.

“How can you say that?! You like cricket! Cricket is a sport!”

Mycroft’s voice had lost its habitual composure and was verging on the hysterical.

“Cricket is NOT a sport! Cricket is a _game_ , it is practically a mental exercise, a very soothing one at that, and one that involves a damn sight more skill than your knuckle-dragging nonsense.”

“Oh, yeah, course it does. Have you seen what those lads get up to on tour?”

“It may shock you to learn, John Watson, that I take no notice at all of the extracurricular goings-on of admittedly overpaid game players…not being a tabloid-reading crisp-eating simpleton myself...”

“You only like cricket because no-one understands it. It’s basically in code. Googly, silly point, square leg – it’s like a Monty Python sketch. _You_ don’t even understand it!”

“How dare you, I understand _everything_!” said Mycroft, shocked to his core at the accusation.

“Oh, yeah, you understand a nice load of smooth-skinned 20-something lads in tight white trousers rubbing balls on their groins and running away from the camera, don’t you?” said John, dripping insinuation.

“Says the man who prides himself on his ability to stick his head between the bare thighs of a dozen burly cavemen in the local park every Sunday morning!”

“Rugby is not homoerotic!”

“No, of course not, darling. What could be more innocent than 22 men piling on top of each other in shorts and all having a bath together afterwards? And the singing, John! There’s more singing in rugby than in the Royal Festival Hall. And as for the national abomination that is football…”

“What? What?! Got a problem with the working man enjoying himself, haven’t you? Think we should all be up chimneys, doffing our caps to you lot and amusing ourselves with improving books.”

“I have no problem at all with the working man enjoying himself communally, I merely resent the re-enactment of medieval peasantry that goes along with it. Uncouth is not the word.”

“Snob is the word!”

“And it _must_ be on the television at all times, mustn’t it? At least I have the grace to go and watch the cricket in person at Lords, occasionally.”

“Yeah, very egalitarian, bet that’s a diverse cross-section of the nation, there.”

“Oh, yes, and how much does it cost for a seat in one of those Roman amphitheatres you call a football stadium these days? And you’re not working class, you’re an ex-army doctor, you couldn’t be more bourgeois if you owned a Prius.”

“On an NHS salary?! Working class roots, mate. Boy done good. Not a silver-spoon-feeder with a mansion in Hampstead who still calls their Mum _Mummy!”_

“Don’t you bring Mummy into this, John Watson. Bad form!”

“Well, don’t you call me a class traitor, then!” yelled John, frisbeeing a coaster across the room.

"Barbarian!" accused Mycroft, flinging a cushion.

"Pansy!" countered John.

"Lout!” 

"Toffee-nosed twat!"

Panicking that this was about to descend into desperate territory, Sherlock interrupted. Greg lurked outside the door, waiting for his moment, praying that Sherlock could somehow shame them into a reconciliation.

“I quite like the one where they throw themselves down the big icy slide. The cold sport. You know, they wear Spiderman costumes.”

Both warring factions looked askance at him.

“Yeah, I do know who Spiderman is, thank you! I learned them all for the Case of the Fancy Dress Party Massacre.”

“What are you talking about?” said John, puzzled. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

John cottoned on and tutted. “He means luge! Luge isn’t a sport either. None of the sitting down ones are! Not bikes, not boats, not horses,” he pronounced, with absolute certainty.

Sherlock batted this away good-naturedly. “I like the boaty ones too… Rower’s arms…,” he said, dreamily.

“Those are all the ones we British are best at. Sitting is the national pastime,” scoffed Mycroft, vaguely agreeing with John on this one issue. John couldn’t help himself, too far steeped in habitual contradiction to fully appreciate what he was saying.

“Not for some of us, mate. Some of us prefer exercise and sport to sitting around on our big fat arses sneering at the commoners.”

Mycroft’s face registered a palpable hit. Sherlock’s mouth fell open, even as John winced.

“John! Mycroft doesn’t have a big fat arse…anymore. And even if he did, only I’m allowed to say so. And even if he did, I’d still want to fuck it, and so would you, and so would Greg. Don’t be mean to my brother!”

John cringed again. He’d heard the words leave his mouth before his brain fully connected them.

“Yeah… Sorry, Myc. Actually. I was being rhetorical, but…”

Mycroft raised a hand in acknowledgement, his expression self-conscious and closed.

“That’s… It’s fine.”

John felt like the worst kind of thoughtless heel. “No. Oh, love… I’m sorry. Love your arse, and the rest. You know I do. Not big or fat. Gorgeous, you.”

“Mmm,” agreed Mycroft, composing himself, uncomfortable with the minor hurt and the fact all of them had noticed it.

John ran a hand through his hair. “Fuck, I’m an idiot, I really didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know, John, truly. It’s all right.” Mycroft smiled, genuinely, if a little wanly.

“Why are we arguing?” said John, seeming confused.

“I don’t know. I was irked. I despise football almost as much as I despise crisps.”

John huffed a little laugh.

'Ello, ello, ello, what's all this then?' said Greg, finally stepping into the room now a calmer window of opportunity had presented itself. He was trying to lighten the mood, but John and Mycroft jumped as though caught in some heinous act.

'Him!" Each man pointed to the other, and both were outraged at being dobbed in so readily.

"Oi, give over, you pair of dickheads. What a carry on," said Greg, despairingly.

John seemed to only now properly notice the presence of their lover. "Greg... Hang on, you're not supposed to be back yet. Not enough crime to keep you going?"

"Sadly there's plenty, but there was a lull and I got an interesting phone call. Actually, it wasn't that interesting. Heard it all before. But the caller asked me to give the place the once-over. Bit of a domestic on the go, I heard,” he said, ominously.

"Ah." John looked sheepish.

Mycroft looked indignant. "Lock, you creepy little informant!"

"Not sorry. Headache."

Greg made a sympathetic face and crossed the room.

"Not surprised, baby, from the racket in here. Poor Mrs H must have a cracker as well. Poor Lockie. Think you're due a bit of spoiling for putting up with all this nonsense," he said, bringing Sherlock into his arms and petting his hair protectively.

"Yes! At last. So there, Mycroft!" said Sherlock with gloating triumph, rather unused to being the one in the good books. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation. His brother shook his head disapprovingly.

"Spoiling him isn't going to help anything, Gregory. We've calmed down now."

"I haven't!" sallied John.

"Yes, you have!" contradicted Mycroft.

Greg said nothing, waiting for them to fall silent. He smiled somewhat insincerely. 

"Lock, my angel, will you go and make yourself comfy in your room?"

"I will, Greg. Spoiling time," he piped, gleefully clapping his hands.

"Think we might make those two a bit _uncomfy_ in your room. What do you reckon, hm? Teach them a lesson?"

Sherlock nodded happily.

"Gregory, I don't know what you imagine you're..." said Mycroft, attempting to seem reasonable.

"Don't want any lip, thanks. But I know you can't help yourself, doll. On a roll, aren't you? Don't worry. We'll soon have you off it and back to earth."

"Good, I'll be in my room calming down," said John, attempting to slink away.

"Nice try, Johnnyboy. Very inventive. Not a chance.”

Mycroft and John exchanged dubious glances. 

"Bit of equipment needed. Fetch my box, love," said Greg, winking at Sherlock, who skipped off. 

Greg eyed the two miscreants in front of him, both still flushed and red-faced from combat. He grinned.

“Now, because our Lockie has a nasty headache, I'm going to forego the flat of my hand on your arses, and jump straight to the vile torture. Grab yourselves a kitchen chair each and join us, why don't you? Think we’ll do some making up in the bedroom.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, the talking precedes the bonking. Next and final chapter for all that.


	2. The only sport where everybody wins.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys make up.

Gregory Lestrade didn't believe in equipment, really. It wasn't his cup of tea. He favoured a DIY approach to sex - clothes pegs for nipple clamps, balls of socks for effective gags, good old multipurpose belts and neck ties – always inclined to trust things he could make with his own hands over fancy shmancy shop-bought tat. As long as it did the job, he saw no reason to be extravagant. He was a man of simple tastes.

His blokes had other ideas. John in particular had nagged him about upgrading their toys to a higher standard, and a few custom-made items at the luxury end of the market had been supplied by Mycroft's largesse. Until recently these were kept in a cardboard Waitrose box in Sherlock's wardrobe, but Mycroft had insisted upon purchasing an antique mahogany chest - which may once have been used to store scientific instruments and illicit etchings - to lend a little glamour to the contents. Mycroft dealt with the aesthetics of such things, providing bondage items of taste for the kinky gentleman of refinement. Greg had learned to embrace it, and had recently gone on a little secret spending spree of his own. 

It was to this box that Sherlock raced, shedding clothes with customary reckless haste, leaving them puddled on the floor as though he'd recently melted.

As Greg and the two rather abashed former-combatants - each holding a wooden kitchen chair - entered Sherlock's lair, they were met with a sight that the word 'erotic' could not hope to do justice to. The word 'erotic' simply gave up attempting to be adequate to the moment and begged for redefinition.

On the scandalously large bed was the box of tricks. A naked consulting detective rummaged through it like a naughty, impatient child at Christmas, before holding aloft his favourite and most spectacular piece of kit: a full leather body harness. 

Though Greg was equally happy trussing him up with dressing gown belts as with handmade bespoke harnesses, he had to admit that this particular item was a rare treasure in the collection; supple, buttery and perfectly-fitting. Sherlock's trim pale torso, lithe and lightly muscled, looked practically sculptural in it; his pectorals and little nipples delightfully framed, his taught abs showcased, his upper arms caressed and squeezed between straps. It had belts for the upper thighs and hips, which displayed his beautiful prick - and from behind, his peachy bottom - to perfection. Made to measure.

Sherlock liked to think it was his body that made the harness more attractive, rather than the other way round. No-one who saw it could possibly contradict, so it was allowed to stand as fact. 

He eagerly began putting it on, in a sort of reverse strip-tease that made the others gawp like morons.

The garment, if one could call it that, was functional as well as attractive - much like himself, thought Sherlock. There were metal rings of varying sizes set into the leather, to allow for displays of aerial acrobatics and rope-play that would put a Chinese circus act to shame. Though the only time they’d done that, using hooks Greg drilled into the ceiling, chunks of plaster rained down, and it didn’t seem quite safe to try again. But, still, it allowed the wearer to be pulled and hoisted and manipulated in numerous exciting ways. Sherlock simply adored being rendered helpless by Greg, who possessed the most brute strength and was able to manoeuvre him just as he liked with hands and body-weight alone, making the rangier man feel like a sex puppet. Which he supposed is what he was. 

Greg crossed over to him to help with the buckles at the back; always a good excuse for a preliminary feel-up. He tested the give with two fingers, making sure there was no pinching or blood-restriction.

"Bonny lad," he said, approvingly. “Are you all nice and clean for me, sweetheart? Did you do your special washing thing?”

Sherlock looked incredulous even as he blushed. Greg did so like to ask these things to elicit that exact reaction.

“Do you honestly think I call you to come home unless I calculate a better than 75% chance of getting rogered? Of course I...did that for you. I’m sparkling.”

Greg nodded, satisfied, and went over to Sherlock's rather large and full wardrobe.

"Now, where did I put the ruddy... Ah ha!" he said, winningly, as he produced his newest purchase with a flourish. 

Sherlock scowled, irritated that he hadn’t found it earlier. He vowed to clear out his wardrobe on a more regular basis. _Probably hid it in that stupid hat I never wear._

"What the fuck's that?!" exclaimed John, sounding thrilled and disturbed in equal measure.

"Oh, really, Gregory!" scoffed Mycroft, attempting a nonchalance which belied his quickening heartbeat.

"That, me old love, is a brand new double ball-gag, so I can shut two gobby prats up at once. Nice, innit? Little surprise. Knew it'd come in handy. To be honest, I reckoned its first outing would be entirely Holmes-related, but I don't want to keep it back specially and deprive you of it. You two - chairs at the end of the bed, facing each other. Close together."

They reluctantly did as instructed, muttering about sneaky underhanded coppers _sotto voce_.

“Heard enough of your yap for one afternoon, haven’t we, Trouble?”

“Yep. Nuff yap. Hurry up, Greg, I want it,” demanded Sherlock, jiggling up and down with impatience, causing his buckles to jingle and his half-hard-on to slap against his belly appealingly.

“You’ll get it. Now…,” he mused, as he approached them. “Think we’ll let the punishment fit the crime. From football to mouth-ball, eh?”

Mycroft groaned as though in pain. “Oh, Lord, spare us the wit of Lestrade.”

“New balls, please,” chuckled Greg to dual furious looks.

“That’s tennis, Greg! We weren’t arguing about tennis,” said John, disgustedly.

“Don’t waste your breath, John, he is literally only using that thing because it’s a pun. No, it’s not even a pun, just a silly word association! Try and ignore it.”

The elder and most linguistically sensitive Holmes brother was most put out.

“Yeah. It’s your pun-ishment,” said Greg, knowing that he spoke truthfully. Lame jokes were anathema to Holmeses.

“I want a divorce,” said Mycroft, instantly.

“Shame we’re not hitched,” said Greg.

“Then I want you submitted to a full probing tax audit. I can arrange that, you know!”

“Course you can, darlin’. You’re a big tough man and I’m very impressed. Think we’ll have some shutting up now though.” He loomed over him, wielding the gag and a look of determination.

"Oh, Greg...," whined a thoroughly harnessed Sherlock, in his prettiest voice - the one he used when he really, really wanted something. Which was to say, every day.

“What, darl?”

“Aren’t you going to smack them first? I want them smacked!”

“Do you, honeypie?” he replied, dripping with saccharine to annoy the others. “Mm. OK, maybe a little bit, for extra insurance. Go and fetch me your lovely crop, yeah?”

“Yay!”

“Greg!”

“You’re not seriously going to let him dictate to you, are you Gregory?”

“I’m feeling generous. Like an Emperor in a good mood. Decided to let my consort have his way. A bit of common sense was shown in this flat today for once. He called me for assistance first, instead of just barrelling in or storming off. I think that deserves a bit of pampering. So, Lock’s wish is my command. For the next little while, anyway,” he said, indulgently.

“Yes! Ha, I knew I’d gotten that right,” said Sherlock, proudly, poking his tongue out at his brother.

“Probably could tone down the gloating, though, lovely boy.”

 “What Lockie wants, Lockie gets…,” mumbled John, feigning bitterness like the hypocrite he knew he was. He indulged their youngest, wildest lover more than anyone.

“This sets a dangerous precedent,” reproved Mycroft, privately thinking that the precedent had been set long ago, and that the blame lay with him.

“I told you not to buy the bloody thing for him, didn’t I? Didn’t I say?” said John, turning his irritation on the elder Holmes.

Mycroft shook his head in self-reproach. “I’m a fool to myself, John. But it was for us to use on _him_ , and if a chap can’t treat his little brother on his birthday…”

Sherlock brought the riding crop over, a gleeful look on his face.

“Oi, you’re not doing it, mate. You wouldn’t enjoy it, really,” said Greg, firmly taking it from him.

“I could just do Mycroft…” He fluttered his lashes hopefully.

“Especially not that. Behave yourself.”

“Mm. OK, Greg. I believe you,” said Sherlock lightly, glad his bluff hadn’t been called. He didn’t have it in him to punish Mycroft, not even a little. One had to be Greg or John for that. But it didn’t do to let on too much.

He breathed a sigh of relief and flopped down on the bed to watch the proceedings, playing with his straps as he lay on his back. He slipped a hand to his semi-hard prick, bringing it to full stiffness as he watched Greg prowl back towards his brother and his flatmate – both partners in crime.

“Drop ‘em and bend over the backs of your chairs, the pair of you,” ordered Greg in his no-nonsense voice.

Scowling and grumbling, they kicked off their trousers and pants, then stripped off the rest of their clothes because it was ridiculous to think they wouldn’t be ordered to later. They bent over their respective chairs so that they faced each other, their bare arses displayed at opposing ends.

“Now… What was it I heard? Some very childish – and kind of retro - insults being flung about.”

Greg played it casual.  “Oh, yeah,” he said, from behind Mycroft. “Barbarian.”

The crop suddenly whistled through the air and struck Mycroft’s pale backside, leaving a vibrant pink line in its wake. Mycroft flinched in silence, biting the inside of his cheek.

Greg moved to John’s side. “Pansy,” he said, and gave him the same treatment.

Again he swapped sides.

“Lout.” Another, harder stroke. Mycroft’s breath caught in his chest and he inhaled sharply through his nose.

“Now, toffee-nosed twat is three words…”

“Hyphenated, Gregory,” said Mycroft in a strained voice, attempting to have John’s sentence commuted.

“Pedant. Let’s call it two words, and count the extra one for the comment about fat arses, shall we?” said Greg, grimly.

John nodded and screwed up his face in anticipation of three harder blows. Which he received.

“Ooh, _shit_ …,” he breathed. _Ouch._

"Now, sit," commanded Greg, returning the crop to the wardrobe.

They sat, at a loss for what else to do, wincing against the sting across their buttocks, and casting apologetic looks at each other through lowered lashes. 

"So,” continued Greg, with abominable pleasantry, as though in a work seminar on customer service. “Me and Lockie are going to play with our lovely leather strappy thing, and you are going to gaze lovingly into each other’s eyes and listen to me fuck his nasty headache away. You'll miss the visuals, I'm afraid, lads. Oh, and for added focus, you'll need these..."

He held up two cock rings, which they had been expecting. "And these,” he said, waving leather wristcuffs, which they had not.

‘ _Three_ sets of cuffs…?’ wondered Mycroft to himself. ‘Oh, dear.’

"But you don't like using cuffs, Greg," protested John, mildly.

"Quite. You're always saying you get enough of them at work.” 

"Busman's holiday, you say."

Greg harrumphed. "Yeah, well, the occasion calls for a few extra measures, and I can't be bothered to do any decent tying up, all right? Hands are all shaky 'cos of him in that bloody thing. Now stop stalling me."

Sherlock had arranged himself splayed on the bed, and was now stretching and limbering himself up for his big moment.

"Make yourself useful," Greg called to him, smirking as Sherlock extracted a bottle of lubricant from his bedside drawer and set about preparing his hole with a slippery finger or two.

"Oi, eyes front," Greg commanded as John and Mycroft side-eyed Sherlock, resplendently penetrating himself wearing only leather and a lazy-eyed, feline grin. Even in their chastened state, they seemed unable to resist the display. Like toddlers with the telly on - their eyes just went there.

Greg, with the well-practiced movements of an oversexed man in an adventurous relationship with three other oversexed men, grasped both John and Mycroft's hardening cocks, one in each hand, and stimulated them until he felt warm wetness on his palms. Little groans and intakes of breath met his ears, as the two miscreants forgot that perhaps getting hard wasn't entirely to their benefit at this point. Greg let them go, and then slipped a tight silicone ring around the base of each of their balls, so they were squeezed and gripped, unable or unlikely to orgasm without bursting something. John bit his lip and grimaced. Mycroft tried to control his breathing and looked up at the ceiling. 

"Lean forward." Reluctantly, the pair brought their faces close to each other, empathising in their mutual predicament.

"Open."

Both men opened their mouths and Greg slipped the rubber ball between them, ensuring it was well-placed, neither in danger of slipping out nor of choking either of them. Their mouths met in a wide, pseudo-kiss around it; so close but so infuriatingly apart, noses just barely touching, breathing each other’s air. It was almost too intimate, even for lovers. John felt his eyes cross a bit as he tried to focus on Mycroft, who had closed his to prevent that exact sensation. 

Greg slipped the straps on one side of the gag over and around Mycroft's head, and then did the same to John on the other. He fastened them together with enough room for them to pull back and forwards slightly, but not enough to remove the ball from either of their mouths. He tested these straps too, ensuring they weren't tight enough to bruise, or pull their hair, or rub their faces unduly.

Then he placed one cuff around one of Mycroft's wrists, and attached it to the back of his chair, folding his arm up gently behind him. He mirrored this with John on the other side. Each man had a hand loose nearest the bed, and these he buckled together, wrist to wrist, with the third set of cuffs.

Full realisation dawned upon both captives simultaneously. The gag would prevent them from looking to the side, where Sherlock was now frolicking, practicing obscene yoga positions and showing off for no-one but himself. And they were going to be asked to do something, tied together one-handed. 

"Right. Got it now?" asked Greg, rhetorically. Both attempted a nod, accidentally pulling each other's heads and necks uncomfortably. The point was adequately made: they were reliant on cooperation if they wanted to move.

‘Drat, and double drat’, thought Mycroft.

"So you'll be using your free-ish hand to wank each other off, one at a time. Myc, you can only touch John with your left hand, and John can only touch you with his right," explained Greg, helpfully stating the obvious. “Not that you'll be coming any time soon. I want to see some alternating mutual masturbation, while I bend Lock into new origami shapes, OK? You'll both have to be generous, and work out when it's enough, and when it's too much. But you can tell a lot from a bloke's eyes, can't you, which is basically all you’ll be seeing. If either of you stop before I’ve filled my little fucktoy to the brim, I'll find something worse for you. Doesn’t bother me."

They nodded and shivered in unison this time, eyes burning into each other with misdirected fury and appropriate arousal at Gregory Lestrade and his horrible sadist's mind. 

"Now, you little harnessed hussy,” said Greg, turning towards his good boy. ”Prepare to be spoiled to ruination."

Sherlock gazed coquettishly up through his loose curly fringe, rolled onto his stomach, and presented his bottom up for inspection.

Thirty minutes later, much had occurred unseen in the room. John and Mycroft missed the sight of Sherlock hanging half off the bed in a wheelbarrow position, whilst Greg held him by the hip belt and fucked him in mid-air. They didn’t see him being suspended by the chest as Greg, seated against the headboard, hoisted his straps to lift and drop him repeatedly onto his meaty cock. And they totally failed to catch the part of the show where Sherlock straddled his legs into a near-splits, leant on his elbows, and had Greg kneel behind him, holding him by the thigh straps as he pummelled into his open, dripping arsehole.

They heard it, though. They heard every wail and moan, each slap of flesh and creak of leather; every filthy gasp, wet squelch, and brutal thump of the bedstead - the full audio production, turned all the way up to 11 for the back row. They heard every word of deliberate out-loud provocation and taunting description in pornographic surround sound, as their torturers upped the ante.

“Oh, baby, straddle for me, spread your thighs wider… Oh, boys, if you could see this stretched little hole…”

“Greg, Greg, pull my hips up higher. Use my arse, Greg. Oh, fuck me, deeper, _there_ …”

“Sit on my face, you little slut. Mmffghhmm…”

“Oh, feels _so_ big with my legs up on your shoulders…”

It was really all too much.

Throughout the concealed floorshow, John and Mycroft were learning to get on, restricted as they were by mouth, hand, and cock. Two pairs of eyes – warm green and cool grey - bored into each other at close range, sending silent signals of shared anguish, support and remorse, which gradually shifted to helpless desire and frantic need. They strained towards each other, bodies tense, held rigid by the forced position, which created a desperate sense of urge and wanting. Their arousal was permanently peaked - just on the edge but no further - the infuriating pleasure skittering constantly out of reach.

They both bit down on the ball between their mouths, feeling sweaty heat emanating from each other. Their breath came quicker through their noses in spite of their mutual need for control. They were drooling over each other slightly, from above and below, covering themselves in spit and precome.

Mycroft’s elegant hand stroked John’s blunt, hefty prick in a slowish rhythm, as the sound of Sherlock’s squealing met their ears - though whatever was making him squeal remained maddeningly out of their peripheral vision. John’s eyebrows shot up, registering ‘too much!’, and they swapped over. John brought his hand to Mycroft’s substantial erection, pinching the thick head between two fingers before resuming firm, careful rubbing. It was an odd sensation, being masturbated by another’s hand whilst your own was attached to it. They both felt mildly ridiculous as their empty hand was forced up and down, like an obscene marionette's.

By the time a nearly shagged-out Greg was ready to come, John and Mycroft felt like they’d been tethered together, hard and leaking, for hours, while Sherlock had basically qualified for Olympic gymnastics gold.

“Oh, Lock,” ground out Greg, finally, still shoving relentlessly into the pliant, harnessed body from a truly baroque standing position. “Gonna come… Do you want to…?” he asked, as nicely as one could whilst drilling down into another man's arse and bracing yourself against the wall.

“You. Y-yeah. Me, n-not yet…,” panted a practically upside-down Sherlock, feeling himself being thrown forward and pulled back as if by automation.

“Ah. Who do you want, baby?” asked Greg, amid steady thrusts.

“Watson,” came the growled answer.

“Oh, fuck, oh…” That thought was enough to finish Greg.

He groaned into the air as he shuddered his release into Sherlock, pulsing through it as his contractions peaked and receded. Sherlock clenched his arse to wring every last drop from him, just as Greg liked. Inevitably, they collapsed into a sweaty, panting heap.

After a pause, Greg extracted himself and cleaned them up with tissues from the bedside table. Sherlock started unbuckling himself, wanted to be unencumbered once again. Greg helped him off with the web of leather, noting the places where it had abraded him a little too much.

Greg whistled at the sight. Sherlock’s body, pale and easily marked, was covered in pink and red lines where the straps and buckles had been, as though the harness had been burned onto him. Sherlock checked himself over, grinning. This was almost the best part – the delicious battle scars to enjoy for the rest of the day.

“Like that, don’t you, you dirty little bastard?” taunted Greg. Sherlock leaned in and kissed him in the affirmative.

“Yes. Thank you for giving it to me,” he said sincerely, in a rich, husky tone. “Now,” he said, mercurially shifting into his playful upbeat mood, “Bring me those two idiots. I’m still horny and I want retribution.”

Greg, naked and spent, went to untie their doubly-punished partners. He undid their hands first, rubbing at their wrists to improve the circulation; then he relieved them of the fiendish gag, scooping up spit with more tissues. As soon as it was off, each man brought his hands up to his jaw, firmly massaging themselves, opening and closing their mouths to restore feeling. Greg checked them over and found no hurts. With his paler Holmes skin, however, Mycroft bore the brunt of the physical evidence. As with his brother, the gag left a minor brand on his cheeks and mouth, which made Greg want to gather him up and kiss it better.

Finally, he slipped the cock rings carefully from them, and both humbled men breathed an audible sigh of relief, though neither was yet able to create actual words. Never one to miss an opportunity, Greg said, “Blue balls now, eh?”

Mycroft turned a disgusted look upon him, not so much refusing to respond, as deciding that whatever he said was unlikely to be more articulate than vowel sounds and dribble. Greg winked and leaned down to plant a peck on the top of his head.

He helped them both to their feet, giving each a hug as they rose, rubbing at John's backside, petting Mycroft's cheek. Sherlock watched through heavy-lidded eyes as his adored men stretched and shook themselves out, all three rather stiff and aching from holding stress positions for so long.

“All right, loves?” asked Greg, with concern.

John grinned crookedly, eyes twinkling. Mycroft nodded, one half of his mouth rising in a half-smile. Oh, yes. All right.

“Onto the bed with you, then. My Lockie has a bone to pick.”

Sherlock rose onto his knees in the middle of the bed, giving both of them a full view of his harness lines. They gaped, their silence caused as much by dumb arousal as by residual jaw tension.

He beckoned to both of them with both hands, and they crawled onto the bed before him.

“John Watson," he said, imperiously, "I demand satisfaction from your person. To defend my brother’s honour, you understand.”

John nodded, sincerely. Sherlock’s protectiveness of Mycroft was rarely so overt, and he was determined to nurture it whenever it revealed itself.

Greg smiled fondly to himself. _Holmses._

“You’re going to suck my brother’s cock,” announced He-Who-Must-Be-Temporarily-Obeyed.

“Doesn’t sound like punishment to me,” John said, carefully, testing out language for the first time since his silencing.

Sherlock tutted. “Of course it isn’t. What a ridiculous notion! This is about making him feel good. And you. Treat him like a Prince, John.”

“Always, love.” Point taken.

“Good. And I get your bum, for having to endure all this sporting rubbish and, well, because I want it. Greg can watch as compensation for leaving work, which you know he loves _sooo_ much…”

Greg positioned himself against the headboard, rolled his eyes, and lazily played with his spent cock, betting he could get another rise out of it.

“John, you can show my brother how sorry you are, and Mycie," he said, turned towards his brother's curious gaze, "you don’t get anything up the bum at all. You were horrid. You pressed all John’s buttons, so no-one presses yours. Fair?”

“Very equitable, brother mine, if revoltingly expressed.”

“Want to share our John with me, though?” asked Sherlock, almost shyly.

“Want to share everything with you, little brother.”

Sherlock pulled him up towards him and their mouths met in a deep, wet snog. He held his brother’s head in his hands, running his thumbs over the gag-marks in wonderment. Mycroft trailed his fingers down Sherlock’s chest and abdomen, tracing the crisscrossed lines, as awestruck as he always was at baby brother’s beauty and spirit of adventure.

“You’re very…symmetrical,” he said, hoarsely.

Sherlock giggled, and kissed down his brother’s sturdy, graceful body, planting a tender little suck on the tip of his thick, still-engorged penis. He pulled away again, rubbing his mouth.

"Oh, how did salt and vinegar get there?! Bleurgh. Can't you throw jam next time or something?" complained the sweet-toothed detective.

John snorted and crawled between them. He positioned himself on all fours, offering his arse to Sherlock, and bringing his mouth close to Mycroft’s damp groin.

“I’ll soon clean that up, won’t I?” he gazed up at Mycroft, then winked over his shoulder, and prepared to let the Holmes brothers do their worst.

Greg passed over the lube, and as Sherlock’s fingers pushed into his hole, and his tongue tasted Mycroft’s essence, John felt them lean over his back to share a passionate, open-mouthed kiss of mutual appreciation. Then he set about restoring wounded Holmes pride and making up for what had really been a stupid, pointless argument over a game of idiotball.

*****

In the post-coital afternoon napping stage, four men lay huddled together contently. Two were spooned up - one sylphlike body curled and tucked into beefy arms and a broad, hairy chest. All soft snores and peaceful breathing.

The other two, taller and shorter, lay on their backs beside them, wide-awake and casually stroking each other's arms whilst looking up at the ceiling. One turned over on his side towards the other, leaning on his elbow and propping his head up with his hand. 

"John...?" whispered Mycroft, breaking the comfortable silence.

"Yeah?" John whispered back, turning to face his former adversiy, looking up into his pale blue eyes. The rumpled curls falling across the man's slight widow's peak, and the faint pink marks of the gag still evident round the delicate mouth, made his heart skip.

"For what it's worth," breathed Mycroft, with self-consciousness and mild irony, "I'm sorry your Tottenham Hotspurs lost." 

John snorted a delighted, sardonic little laugh.

"Cheers."

Mycroft's voice rose to a light rumble, calculating that no-one would be disturbed. Gregory could sleep through hurricanes, and Sherlock could pretend to.

"I do rather like the name, actually... Best character in _Henry IV_ , Hotspur."

John tutted. "Useless, overpaid bastards, the lot. Their fault I'm going grey."

Mycroft considered this. "Mm. They don't seem to have the hang of the game, do they? I thought the point was to keep the ball out of their own net?"

"Don't push it, mate," warned John, playful-serious.

Mycroft's eyes were bright with amusement. John clicked his tongue, regarding him affectionately and seeing the wordless sentiment returned in the other man's eyes.

"I'm also sorry about the row," said Mycroft, frowning with self-censure at the memory of it. _Such silliness._

"Me too, love. Was being a selfish arse. And the crisps were a step too far." 

Mycroft shrugged. "I think I probably deserved them." Then, in a tone laced with sincerity, but tinged with the awkwardness of a man still unaccustomed to speaking emotion aloud: "I apologise wholeheartedly for pressing the class button. It wasn't very...well, classy. I hope..." He stalled.

John held his breath, communicating patient encouragement.

"I hope you know I have nothing but the utmost respect... Your background, your interests. Everything. Everything you've done in your life is extraordinary and self-made. Against circumstance, against adversity. You are a class act, my dear." 

John's heart beat a little faster, and he found himself blushing. Holmesian praise of any kind: an accolade beyond price.

"Nah," he said, dismissively, gazing back with a cheeky look. "You've just got the horn for my rugged salt-of-the-earth charm. You and your pipsqueak brother. Pair of decadent perverts. Go all knock-kneed for me and that common brute over there."

Mycroft's eyes lit up and he ran his fingers lightly down one side of John's cheek. "I admit it." He stroked along one sandy eyebrow, enjoying its texture on his fingertip. 

John looked down then up again, and brought his hand up to tangle in Mycroft's.

"Sorry for trying to make you feel bad about...liking what you like, or not liking things I like. Could've found something we both liked.”

“Not at all. A hard-grafting Englishman ought to be allowed to watch a football match in peace on a Saturday afternoon.”

“Didn’t have to make a twat of myself and say a very stupid thing, did I?”

"Forgiven already, my dear. I know you weren’t trying for twattery." He kissed John's slightly calloused fingertips. John ran one across the other man's thin lips. “I am oversensitive about that. Bloody embarrassing…”

“You feel how you feel, love. Even if it’s demonstrably untrue. Not your fault, is it? Should’ve engaged brain, what little there is of it.”

“Dear boy,” Mycroft said in mild reproof, tapping John’s nose lightly.

John smiled with endearing diffidence. “And the class klaxon. Same here, yeah? It's my insecurity, not yours, love. All my career - both bloody careers - dealing with the upper crust, trying to adapt and speak their language. Never being 'one of us', you know. Sorry it gets in the way sometimes." 

"Anyone who doesn't understand who and what you are on sight is a boor and an oaf, and ought to be hounded from the country. Fortunately, you have gentlemen of refinement and taste to, shall we say, fill the void...," said Mycroft, smoothly, his eyes darker with provocation now, inching slightly closer.

"You know I love the posh thing, right?" confessed John, as though this were news.

"I do... All you filthy working boys love elocution and good table manners," husked Mycroft, insinuating a cool hand between John's legs. He idly played with his balls, rolling and stroking above, around, under...

"Stop it, you sneaky bugger," John protested lamely, a chuckle rising in his chest.

"You only want me for my vowels," said Mycroft, letting his voice go suave and soft. "I feel all fetishised and used, it's simply  _marvellous_ ," he teased, over-pronouncing each word with plummy roundness, harsh fricatives and gentle susurration.

"Ooh..." John went a bit giddy and bounced his head back on the pillow.

Mycroft encroached further and placed his lips to the man's neat ear as he stroked his rapidly filling cock.

"Hmm. You simply _adore_ Received Pronunciation, don't you? You grubby little aitch-dropper. Would you like me to recite Shakespeare for you?" 

"Mycroft, don't, I'm warning you... I can and will go again." 

“Good. I didn’t get it up the bum earlier, but I think I’m allowed it now…,” he retorted with a quiet laugh.

“Myc…” John closed his eyes, trying to hold out a little longer for pride’s sake.

Mycroft pitched his voice darker and deeper, sensing victory.

"Fancy a bit of posh, John? Hmm? Shall we go to Glyndebourne and fuck during Götterdämmerung? Or shall I get jodhpurs and take you riding? I could take you riding now, of course..."

John snapped. 

"La-di-da ponce," said the blond, hotly, throwing himself on top of his smug patrician tormentor.

"Ill-bred peasant," returned the red-head, as his wrists were pinned by the proletarian assailant. 

"Oh, Myc...!"

"Ooh, Johnny..."

Sherlock, his eyes still closed, smiled to himself as he felt the mattress begin to jerk and wobble beneath them. Greg pulled him closer and growled in his throat, half turned on in his sleep as the meaning of those rhythmic vibrations penetrated his dreams.

Next to them, a social utopia was being made anew; the working man, thrusting and upwardly mobile, taking his rights into his own hands; the highborn elite gleefully slipping down the social scale, getting down and dirty with the man in the street. Liberty and equality for all. And later, when he'd recovered his strength, thought Sherlock, drowsily - fraternity. Lots and lots of fraternity. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silliness over. Love you lots. Comments welcomed always. x


End file.
